


Bend Until You Break

by JustAGirl24



Series: Art Therapy [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Awkward Boners, Bathing/Washing, F/M, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-04 01:25:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5314964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAGirl24/pseuds/JustAGirl24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He frowns at the pristine white bandage, knowing he ought to call a nurse to wrap it in plastic.</i> Fuck it all,<i> he thinks fiercely. Jaime is a man grown, not a child needing to be bathed by his </i>nanny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bend

There is a philosophy on Tarth, that working as a team is the best way to heal. There is an earnestness bordering on naiveté to it that Jaime wants to mock, but something holds him back. If war has taught Jaime anything, it is that people’s minds won’t be changed. He is too tired to waste his breath trying.

Doctor Samwell Tarly— _“call me Sam!”_ — sees Jaime every Wednesday, checking to see how his arm is healing. He encourages Jaime to see Elder Brother, the facility’s therapist.  That morning, Sam describes the approach on Tarth as ‘healing the body, mind, and spirit.’ He tells Jaime he didn’t get to this point alone, and it will be difficult if not impossible to come through it alone, too.

Then he asks about art therapy and whether Jaime feels it’s been helpful. Jaime doesn’t answer the question, rage beginning to form a hot, leaden ball in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t want to talk about Brienne, or think about her outside of class, either. The question is stupid and pointless. The _doctor_ is stupid and pointless. He finishes wrapping Jaime’s stump in fresh cotton gauze, idiotic chatter about the benefits of art therapy spilling from his fat pink face. Jaime leaves the exam room, the door cutting the doctor off mid-sentence.

He returns to his room and sits heavily on the edge of the bed. It has been two days since his midday ‘night terror.’ He watches the second hand of the clock as it _tic, tic, tics_ along, making several passes around the face. He absolutely does not notice that it is _86 minutes, 85 minutes, 84 minutes_ until art therapy.

A breeze rolls through the windows, brushing over his face, through his hair. He feels the last of the rage from his appointment with Doctor Tarly dissipate. The air smells fresh and clean, redolent with the salty tang of the ocean. But there is something else to it as well, he notices—a sour, earthy note. With a sharp jolt, Jaime realizes it is coming from his oily hair, his unwashed body. Shame washes over him as his gaze slides to the bathroom door. He breaks into a cold sweat at the thought of a shower, his thoughts skittering away from the idea after only a moment—the feel and the sound are too reminiscent of the fire hose at Harrenhal. But a bath—maybe—with hot water—yes. _Maybe._

Jaime runs the bath, the water almost a trickle, barely making a sound as it fills the tub. Steam rises from the surface, so different from the unrelenting chill of Harrenhal. He closes the lid of the toilet and sits down, slowly toeing off his dark brown slippers. He reaches behind himself to grab a fistful of his shirt with his left hand, awkwardly pulling it forward and over his head to bunch at his elbows. He tugs his left arm free, then eases the shirt over his still-tender stump. He frowns at the pristine white bandage, knowing he ought to call a nurse to wrap it in plastic—but _fuck it all,_ he thinks fiercely. Jaime is a man grown, not a child needing to be bathed by his _nanny_. He stands and pulls the drawstring of his pajama pants free from the half-knot he had managed the last time he took a piss. They are so loose, they drop to his ankles before he can catch the waistband. His boxers follow suit, and he clutches the edge of the white porcelain sink as he pulls first one foot, then the other from the puddle of fabric at his feet.

Jaime catches sight of himself in the mirror on the back of the door, hardly recognizing what he sees. He looks like half a corpse—dark shadows under his eyes, sunken-in cheeks, a short, grizzled beard that is more gray than not. His hipbones jut sharply, and he can count all his ribs.

It is hardly a wonder that Cersei couldn’t stand to look at him, let alone be touched by him.

Jaime swallows thickly, then turns away from the sight. He turns off the faucet and eases himself into the steaming water, hot enough to nearly scald him, but Jaime relishes the heat even as it steals his breath. He draws in deep lungsful of the steamy air, imagining as he exhales that he is releasing a heavy burden. He can do this.

He carefully wets a washcloth and drapes it over his knee, grabs a pristine bar of soap from a nearby nook, and scrubs it against the fabric until it turns foamy white. The clean scent of the soap fills the air as he scrubs vigorously under his arms, over his chest and groin, down his legs. _There._

But there is still his hair. The thought of submerging his head— _no,_ but he leans forward a bit and carefully washes the oily strands without getting more than a few drops of water on his face. He leans back and rests his head on the ledge, his folded knees pink from the still-hot water. The tremors have returned— _stress,_ Doctor Tarly would tell him, and Jaime huffs a humorless laugh at the thought of a bath being _stressful,_ but this is his life now. He lets his hand fall into the water—now more warm than hot, and grayish from his filth—and forgets about it. His mind drifts, as it often does, to Cersei. The water, so lovely and warm, reminds him of a particular visit to one of the Dornish water gardens, laying on towels in the bright sun. He turns his head just slightly to see her long legs stretched out beside him, heavily muscled and pale as milk, covered in swirls and spatters of golden-brown freckles. He cannot wait until those legs are wrapped around his hips. His gaze moves up and over her modest one-piece, her thick neck and broad nose, to meet the astonishing blue of her eyes, _Brienne_ —

Jaime sits up straight in the bathtub. He stares, wide-eyed, at his stiff cock in surprise. _Brienne. Not Cersei, Brienne._ It has been so long since he has felt something that isn’t anger or numbness. Lust has been the last thing on his mind.

He has no idea what to do. And art therapy is in less than an hour.


	2. Break

Jaime shuffles down the hallway towards the terrace. He is still wearing the same dark brown house slippers, but his sweatpants and t-shirt are clean. He might have noticed the pleasant sensation of fresh cotton-knit against his skin, so different from the tacky feeling of his old clothes, if his godsdamned cock would just stop being so… _persistent._

Truth be told, he hasn’t given the damn thing much thought beyond the occasional need to piss in…fucking hells, has it been over a year since he was captured? He isn’t fully hard—gods know he wouldn’t have left his room if it had been  _that_ obvious—but it’s still uncomfortable to walk around with a half-hard cock. He wills it to go away as each step brings him closer to the terrace, but—no. He reaches the entryway and sees that he is the first to arrive. Brienne is sitting at a small table and writing in a journal. In the bright sunlight, she is still as hulking and ugly as ever.

He must make some kind of noise, because she looks up suddenly, her eyes fixing on his. He can see the surprise on her face, though she struggles to smooth out her expression. He realizes just what a difference clean hair and fresh clothes can make. Her face flushes red, and Jaime raises an eyebrow.  _This is new._

“M-Mr. Lannister!” she says, standing from her desk.

“Jaime,” he growls.

“ _Jaime.”_ His cock gets just a bit harder when she repeats his name. “Good afternoon.” She looks down at the journal she’d been writing in and closes it, fiddling with the leather edge and arranging it just so. Her gaze darts back to his as she presses her thick lips into a thin line. “You’re looking well,” she offers, smiling to show a mouthful of teeth like the large, white squares of gum his Aunt Genna used to sneak him.

His cock twitches, and Jaime works to suppress a groan of annoyance. He shrugs at Brienne, grabs his canvas from where it’s propped against the wall, and walks to his spot. Funny to think of it as ‘his’ spot after only two visits, but he doesn’t dwell on it, just sits down at his stool and stares at the swirls and ripples of blue on his canvas. He hears Brienne’s voice, low and warm, as she greets someone she calls Sandor. Jaime peers around his canvas and sees the man with the burn scars, then ducks back. _Sandor? When he’s always ‘Mr. Lannister’?_  He wipes it from his mind. He doesn’t care who Brienne talks to anyway.

He stares at his canvas a few more minutes, but the scarred man breaks Jaime’s concentration as he moves around. Jaime sighs loudly and stands, reminded once more of his cock’s persistence as he moves over to the box of acrylics. He is digging through the box, looking for a tube of black paint, when Brienne comes to stand on the other side of it. He is distracted for a moment by her hands— _two_ hands, broad-palmed and long-fingered, freckled as the rest of her. He feels that familiar rage swell within him— _how can she have two hands when he has only one, a_ useless  _one, why should_ anyone  _when he does not?_ The injustice of it is all-consuming. 

He is frozen, hand buried in tubes of paint, until he feels the scrape of short, blunt fingernails against his palm. The sensation travels straight to his cock, which is no longer only half-erect, and he sucks in a sharp breath. Brienne mumbles a distracted  _sorry,_ mindless of her two hands and the effect she’s had on him. Jaime huffs out a short breath, finding the black paint and stalking back to his easel. He throws his weight onto the stool, the wood scraping unpleasantly against the brick, and stares at the canvas again.

 _Go. Away._ He orders his stubborn cock. He never thought he'd be so thankful for baggy sweatpants.

Ire grows within him, gnawing at his thoughts. He wonders how on earth he can respond to  _her_  like this. His whole life, there has only been Cersei. And when Cersei hasn’t been there, there have always been thoughts of her to accompany his right hand. But _her? Brienne?_ She couldn’t be further from his golden twin, broad and ugly where Cersei is delicate and beautiful. Jaime growls under his breath, uncapping the black acrylic tube.

"Oi," comes an annoyed rumble to his right, and Jaime turns to glare at the man—Sandor _—_ sitting next to him.

He is a large man, one of the largest Jaime has ever seen. Thick, gnarled scars cover the left side of his face, and his thin hair is combed to the left in an attempt to cover some of them. He glares back at Jaime with fiery gray eyes. “Stop sighing like a lovesick git, will ya?”

And there is the rage again, the desire to hurt, to _fight,_ twisting in his chest like a beast trying to escape. Jaime stands, his jaw and fist clenched. “Why don’t you keep your rather sizeable nose out of my business?” he sneers.

Sandor jumps to his feet, an ugly scowl covering his face. He towers over Jaime by at least four inches, shoulders broad and arms thick with muscle. Jaime should know better when faced with a bigger, stronger opponent, He is easily half again as large as Jaime, but keeping his calm has never been Jaime’s strong suit. He will not back down.

 _“Gentlemen.”_ Jaime hears Brienne as though through a fog, his gaze never leaving Sandor’s. _She doesn’t matter._ Adrenaline courses through him, his stump throbbing, his fingers tingling with it. The other man’s nostrils flare, and Jaime sees his hands clench into fists. _This is it._ He feels alive, _exhilarated_ almost.

But then, instead of the hooked nose and the lank hair and the gray eyes, he sees Brienne. She stands between him and Sandor, a hand pressed to the other man’s chest to push him away. “Mr. Lannister— _Jaime—_ please go back to your room.”

She says something else, but Jaime cannot understand it, her words seeming to stretch like taffy. A Lannister doesn’t concern himself with the opinions of sheep, much less their orders. She stares at him, her cheeks and neck splotchy red. Her eyes are stern and  _so, so blue._

He is _sick_ of this place, sick of being placed here and pushed there, like a potted plant or an infant. He snaps.

“I will _not,”_ he hisses, drawing himself to his full height. She is still taller than him, if only by a scant inch. Jaime growls.

Her posture stays the same, though her face hardens. “I don’t think this is the place for you, right now.” She is quiet but unwavering.

Jaime sneers, that ugly, clawing thing in his chest finally escaping. He is ready to destroy. It’s all he knows how to do anymore. “What’s the matter, _wench?_ I don’t fit in with your ugly misfits, cripples, and broken things?” He runs a scathing gaze up and down her form. “Don’t worry, I think you’re still their queen.”

There is an unnatural silence on the terrace, as though all the air is gone. It reminds him of foxholes and falling bombs, of hardly daring to breathe before the chaos and shrapnel hit. Brienne’s face is suddenly pale, her eyes taking on a curious sheen.

It’s a thought that has rarely crossed his mind— _his mother would be so ashamed._ He feels suddenly _small. Low._ His gaze passes over the room in a quick sweep, and he notices the many sets of eyes, all trained on them. _Him._ He looks back at Brienne, her throat working as she swallows heavily.

“Forgive me,” he whispers, hardly able to meet her eyes. “That was unworthy.”

Brienne refuses to look away. She nods once, slowly, but doesn’t say a word.

Jaime shuffles towards the door and down the hall. He walks by his room, his feet bringing him to Elder Brother’s office. The door is slightly ajar. Jaime knocks.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to ikkiM for being a fabulous beta. <3
> 
> And thank you to everyone reading this series!


End file.
